


slimy things did crawl with legs, upon the slimy sea

by Gwerfel



Series: Slimy things did crawl [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Arctic misery, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sexual Frustration, Sexual Tension, Victorian Repression, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:22:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22669984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwerfel/pseuds/Gwerfel
Summary: Irving ponders Mr Gibson's impressment and the nature of ecstasy.For the Terror Fan Bingo Challenge 2019 fill 'Harpoon'.
Series: Slimy things did crawl [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1885081
Comments: 20
Kudos: 62
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	slimy things did crawl with legs, upon the slimy sea

**Author's Note:**

> I saw The Lighthouse and I think about Billy Gibson too much. 
> 
> Thank you to the luminous Kt_fairy for inspiring me, listening to me whinge and making sure it all makes sense in the end.

“May I come in, sir?” 

Gibson always slouches. He’s tall for a sailor; most common seamen start their careers as boys and do very little growing thereafter, like goldfish developing to fit the confines of their pond. Long legged William Gibson appears to be an aberration.

“I wouldn't presume to ask if it weren't important,” the steward says, standing at the threshold of Irving’s berth, his sunken blue eyes blinking with apprehension. He carries a silver tray, a tin of boot blacking neatly balanced on it. Irving didn't request that; it is clearly a hastily concocted excuse. He’s about to say as much when he sees Gibson's furtive gaze pass over his shoulder. Irving glances behind himself.

Hickey.

Irving looks away at once.

“If you must,” he stands aside to admit Gibson. He will not have a scene.

He doesn't hide his disgust as Gibson enters. As if it were not enough to be caught in the throes of such a squalid and feculent vice, now the steward must come to plead his case, bringing the despicable matter into Irving’s own quarters.

He draws the door firmly shut, muffling the bubbling tumult of the crew as they go about their evening duties. The hum of activity always swells after supper, once all of the men are fed and have had their grog. It was something that irritated Irving when he first joined the service, because this is exactly the hour he prefers to devote to silent prayer and reflection. Worse still on an Arctic voyage, where the adverse weather keeps men below decks - but in the days following Lieutenant Gore’s death _Terror_ was truly quiet, and he would not return to that for anything. He thanks God for the chatter of occupied men, now.

“Thank you, sir,” Gibson mutters, keeping his eyes low as he looms over Irving.

He sets down his tray on the desk. Irving looks at it, then back at Gibson.

"What is it you want?"

“I thought your boots might be in need of…” Gibson glances down at Irving’s feet. “You will want to look your best for tomorrow’s service.”

Irving watches him a moment longer, then nods. He moves sideways past Gibson to sit at his desk chair and the steward kneels to remove his boots for him. Irving holds himself steady, taking care not to flinch as Mr Gibson’s cold fingertips wriggle underneath the leather at the top of his calf and ease each heavy boot down, cradling his ankle as he pulls. 

Once he has them both off he reaches up for the tin on the desk, and has to stretch across Irving to do it, his breast pocket grazing Irving’s knee. Gibson doesn’t look up, and he settles back, still kneeling as he unscrews the tin. The caustic scent of blacking rises; tarry and mixed with lanolin which reminds Irving always of his childhood, and his years sheep herding in Australia. It’s an oily, animal odour, it pricks in his nostrils. 

The slightest change in atmosphere is noticeable out in this wilderness; every sound too loud, every smell too strong. The salt in his food brings out spots on his tongue that taste like blood and his skin chafes unbearably against the rasp of his clothes. The reek of boot black might linger for days. 

Irving theorises that this phenomenon is a consequence of their isolation. It is the closest one can be to Judgement Day, he thinks; the world wiped clean. They are so far from civilisation and from the clamouring noise of humanity that every sensation is keenly felt, imposes itself. There is no gradient here; no smooth greys or fine lines. There is the white of the ice and the black of the night, both stark and absolute. The brightness is glorious, unending and divine, but the darkness here is deep, thicker than he has ever known.

Even this evening, with the bustle of a merry and hopeful crew so close by, buoyant with talk of felling the bear, and summer on its way, Irving finds it difficult to stave off the darkness. It permeates; it lies within and without, above and below, and now he sees it has infected the men themselves, for here is proof. 

He watches the sodomite William Gibson bent penitent, blacking his boots, and on the inside he snarls. ( _If I had a yearning I would contain it_ ).

Turning away in his chair, Irving seeks distraction, but the pompous silver tray is taking up the entire surface of his desk, and so he cannot write or see to any work.

He flexes his fingers and stretches his toes inside his socks. It isn't cold this evening, the heat from Diggle's stove has spread through the timber, stirred up by all the movement below decks as the men ready themselves for bed. Irving's berth is small, and Gibson's presence has raised the temperature too. He watches him a while, watches the curly top of his head bob and tilt as he tends to his work - he is nothing if not thorough. His hands are large, the knuckles whiten as they grip the boot brush, drawing it over the heel in long graceful strokes.

"Lieutenant Irving, sir," the steward clears his throat, not looking up, perhaps unaware how closely he is being observed.

Irving steels himself, straightening his back and preparing himself for whatever ludicrous tale this sorry man has devised.

"I wished to speak with you about yesterday... I have been most aggrieved to think that you might think ill of me, sir - that you might…” another swallow, “I wanted to explain..."

"I am not a fool, Mr Gibson, you can save your explanations for the captain."

"The captain, sir?" Gibson looks up startled, "surely there is no need… I have been conscientious of my duties always, and--"

"You have committed a grave sin, Mr Gibson, and not only in neglecting your duties, but against the Lord.”

Gibson looks down again and Irving feels revulsion rear up inside him like a serpent. Men like William Gibson are the worst sort. Weak men; men who cannot keep themselves in check. 

What is Gibson, anyway. An AB, before this exhibition, he seems to recall from his record. Someone put in a good word for him on his last posting, perhaps, had him elevated to steward. It isn’t always the best thing for men of his class, raising them up so quickly. A change to the natural order of things; it breeds a malcontent in them, they do not know what to do with it. 

"I am a sinner, sir," Gibson says, quietly. He always does speak so softly. "I know that. But I am not beyond saving, I swear it. If you would… would exercise leniency, sir, and give me a second chance to prove my--"

“You would have me lie for you, Mr Gibson?”

"I would have you know the truth of it!" Gibson said, his eyes growing wide. 

He has stopped brushing, and Irving should like to get up and move away from him, but there is hardly room for it, and it would be unbecoming of an officer, cringing away from his subordinates - especially from a catamite like Gibson.

"The truth?" He asks, sitting even straighter in his chair, the bones in his back clicking into place. 

"The truth, sir,” Gibson continues. “And in knowing the truth I would hope you… that you would take pity on a man who has been cruelly abused. I beg the lord’s forgiveness as much as I beg for your discretion, sir.” 

He says this with much feeling. Irving is sure he sees the brightness of tears in his eyes, perhaps a sign of true contrition. "Is that so?" He asks, wavering.

"Yes, sir." Gibson nods, his eyes now fixed on Irving’s, the boot and brush lying still in his lap, “I am a sinner, sir, god save me, but no more than that, no more than... than a misguided fool who was tricked into something so coarse - who had wickedness thrust upon him, against his will."

"And yet you tried to deceive me. You lied about the cat, Mr Gibson."

"I…" Gibson blinks again, swallowing hard. His adam's apple jumps violently in his long neck. He looks down at his work and sets aside the boot in his hands, and picks up the next. He dabs the bristles in the blacking and begins to brush, slower than before. 

“Mr Hickey, sir.” He says, so hushed Irving almost leans in to hear him.

“What of Mr Hickey?”

Gibson’s hands seem to tremble, he looks up again, “he is devious, sir, you hardly know what he is capable of, I was -- I was seduced, sir.”

"Seduced?” Irving feels the heat of shame, as if it has somehow transferred itself, miasmic, from Gibson into his own gut. These beastly desires do spread that way, he has heard; like a disease. He grips the arms of his chair, the wood slides against his damp palms. He wishes this interview was finished, he wants Gibson out of his presence. 

“Yes, Lieutenant Irving,” Gibson ducks his head again, scrubbing harder at the boot and speaking barely above a whisper, “I dare not tell you the tricks he has - the… the _ways_ he has to convince a man. I knew nothing of those base acts before this expedition, sir, I would swear it on my mother’s own grave.”

“Spare me the details of your disgrace, Mr Gibson.” Irving spits, finding his tongue heavy and dry as sandstone in his mouth. 

"Sir,” Gibson seems to nod, still brushing. “He threatened to tell everybody, if I did not bend to his wants. He was out to destroy me, Lieutenant Irving, and would have if you had not intervened. I am grateful to you, sir."

With that he finishes the second boot and sets it neatly down beside its brother. He stays on his knees and looks up again. His eyes are blue, pink rimmed but devoid of tears now. He holds Irving with his gaze, and Irving holds his breath before he realises that the man is awaiting his judgment. 

“You have erred, Mr Gibson. Most grievously.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But I see that you are repentant.” He looks down at him magnanimously, “I see that you are weak, and have been led into vice by one who is… well. I shall not tell the captain, on this occasion.”

“Oh, thank you, Lieutenant -- and I am, sir,” Gibson leans forward slightly, “weak, I mean. But I want to be good. I look to men like you, sir, good, Christian men, as my example. I knew you would see it, sir, I knew that you would be kind.” 

“Yes, well. Let that be all, Mr Gibson.”

He stays on his knees. “If there is any way I could show my gratitude, sir, I would be more than--”

“See to your duties and attend your Bible, Mr Gibson,” Irving snaps, “that is all the Lord asks, and all that the discovery service demands. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” he stands, stooping forward as he does. His head nods even lower, his tousled curls align with his long thin nose.

Irving looks at his boots, standing side by side and gleaming like obsidian in the lamplight. Gibson’s hands are quite clean as he collects up the silver tray, casting a dazzlingly bright full moon on the bulkhead which they both stare at for a moment of dumb wonder. 

“You are a good steward, Mr Gibson,” Irving says, eventually. He turns back to his desk and takes up his pen. "Stay away from Mr Hickey."

"Sir," Gibson nods again, drawing the door open and leaving finally.

Once the door is closed again, Irving sets the pen back down. He exhales, a long hot shiver, and presses his eyes shut. 

Now that he has heard the truth of it, Irving sees things more clearly - of course it was Hickey. Gibson is a man quiet about his work, a man with little to distinguish him beyond his labour. Hickey, however, has been trouble from the off. Irving curses himself for not having seen it before. An evil has been brewing, that is the darkness he feels. He feels it all the stronger now; his head aches with it, his thoughts have been wandering. Each day it feels harder to keep them on track, to keep his personal accounts in order.

Their first winter in the Arctic he felt they were surrounded by emptiness, swallowed whole by a frigid vacuum, but he told himself it was not so. In the same way a man at sea might feel he is abandoned; set adrift and alone with his thoughts and his burdens, and it is not so. Life can be found always, God will provide. Irving has seen what miraculous creatures belong to the light; has seen vast oceans teeming with life and broad skies filled with every colour of His glory. One only has to look - outwards, not inwards.

He stands, and re-orders the papers on his desk, folding them neatly into his ledger. There is an audit of the tinned provisions on the top, haphazardly filed, which he removes and tucks back in with the rest. He sees it is not for Terror, but a copy brought over from Erebus, and Graham’s signature is at the bottom.

Irving closes the cover and kneels to pray, just where Gibson knelt only a few moments ago. The lingering smell of boot black grows keener. It fills his head, makes him sway for a moment, but he clasps his hands, resting them on the warm seat of his chair, bows his head and prays for Graham’s soul.

Outside his berth the noise has dulled to an anonymous murmur. The crew settle in like sheep, their bleating subdued as they bed down. Now he knows there is a wolf among them.

Irving tries to keep his meditation fixed firmly on Graham, but he cannot help but wonder if what happened to Lieutenant Gore was merely a symptom of something more insidious, which they are yet to face; of the sickness that is growing even now, on Terror. There are miracles in the light, yes, but beneath, in the dark, in the deep, there are other beasts; monstrous, shambling, writhing things. He has heard stories of freakish tentacled creatures that spew black filth to lure in fish; that rise up from the waves stinking of rotten carcass, blinking filmy eyes and reaching with fleshy dripping tendrils to curl around the mast, to squeeze and crush the ship in two. Such turmoil seems impossible out here, where all is quiet and all is still, but Irving knows what lurks beneath the ice, sleeping and waiting. 

What has Mr Hickey pressed Gibson into? 

He climbs to his feet, knees sore, lightheaded from the fumes of the boot black. He steadies himself against the frame of his bunk. 

He dare not imagine their loathsome copulation, as he dares not imagine the beast on the ice. He pulls his nightshirt over his head and begins to unbutton his waistcoat and dress shirt underneath the cover of starched calico. He does this because it is cold, he tells himself as sweat slides down his temples, from his hairline and soaking into his collar. His hands quake and slip against the slick buttons of his garments. William Gibson has handled every item he wears; he has held them and mended them and washed out the stains.

The bed, too, Irving thinks as he draws back the rough hewn blankets, untucking and rumpling the neat folds Gibson has smoothed over. Did he touch Hickey with those same hands?

The flash of Gibson's gulping fish white throat crosses his mind, the quiet gasping that had first alerted him to their presence in the hold. He lays down consumed by the thought, and the sheets seem to scald him. That they might have been down there before, unnoticed, undiscovered. Who knew what men did when brought so low. ( _I have a yearning I must contain_ ). A red hot jolt of shame captures Irving, he clenches his fists. 

Vermin. 

He knew a boy once, a young man, far more beautiful than Mr Gibson or that devil Hickey. A boy he rescued from a river; pulled from the water with his own hands. They shared a bed but they did not touch. 

When his father demanded he must give up his silly fancy of tending a flock on the other side of the world and return home, John Irving went with a heavy heart but also the light of God; he knew himself saved. 

How do they defile each other? With hands and fingers, yes. With their mouths too? Irving rolls over, his back springing sweat that clings to his nightshirt, coiling around and pulling at him. It seems hardly possible that Mr Hickey might stop his endless griping and sly comments for long enough to rouse Gibson to some hellish ecstasy. How he must curl that sharp pink tongue of his, and then what depths of sin is he capable of, what recesses plumbed? 

Irving does not know what became of the young man he left behind on that failing sheep farm, the boy he loved and never touched. ( _I have a yearning…_ )

Lying in his bed he clasps his hands tightly together again, his limbs straining against the hot darkness. The bulkhead itself seems to drip with perspiration, the air is thick and so heavy about him. He prays feverishly, beset by his own vile imaginings, clenching his jaw and listening to the throb of blood in his head and his heart and further down, that futile hungry swelling. 

“Lord,” he whispers aloud into his empty room, “light of the world, forgive me. Please.” ( _Such a yearning_ ).

The ship falls completely silent. There is no thrum of voices, no restless pacing beyond the door, no creaking of the ice. Aside from the relentless thudding of his own heart, Irving hears nothing but perfect stillness. He opens his eyes, slowly, his hands loosening, his limbs relaxing. Even the treacherous pangs in his groin seem to retreat, evening out into a warm glow. It spreads through him like the tide drawing in until he is filled up with a golden light that radiates outwards, filling the room with the thick amber lustre of an Australian sunset. Through the deepening silence his ears start to ring with wondrous voices. 

As he glories in this heavenly light, John comes to know that he is not alone. There is a young man with him, beautiful, _beautiful_ , and made of light. An angel of the Lord; his eyes beam like round silver moons and he holds a golden harpoon, bright with flame - the light of the world.

He begins to weep with joy. He feels every hair raise on his body, every nerve quivers, pulled taut as harp strings as he prepares to receive the incarnation of His love. 

The harpoon spears him and plunges through his body with swift agony. He is fixed to his bed by its blazing tip, it twists in his entrails and wracks him with excruciating pleasure. He opens his mouth in a soundless moan. The angel smiles upon him and Irving feels such a burning inside, such delirium under his skin he thinks it will burn him up. Tears stream, his hot blood swells in his veins and he is brought to rapture.

_(I dare not tell you the tricks he has.)_

John Irving wakes choking, an ugly spasm and tug in his loins, any hollow gratification already receding, receding, leaving him raw and tender as a blister. He sits up, feeling at once the lewd dampness between his legs. It is cooling rapidly, he must have been asleep for hours; his lantern has gone out, and beyond his narrow door he hears the snoring of men in their creaking hammocks, the howl of the Arctic wind outside. In the pitch black he pulls the befouled nightshirt over his head and throws it into the corner. 

Mr Gibson can wash it in the morning. 

**Author's Note:**

> I did the barest minimum research for this and real life Irving actually did leave the navy and try to run a sheep farm in Australia for a bit. He also rescued a guy from a river, which is pretty cool.


End file.
